


Ford Every Stream

by missmollyetc



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Claude is Maria, Danny is the Captain, Hockey Players-Canada, Hockey Players-Men, M/M, National Hockey League, Philadelphia Flyers, The Sound of Music - Freeform, puckling made me do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:13:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men, three boys, one seminary.  What could go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ford Every Stream

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [](http://puckling.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**puckling**](http://puckling.dreamwidth.org/), who requested a Sound of Music!Fusion AU. Tumblr, where this was originally posted, is awful for fic storage, and so I'm posting this here.

Bishop Hesner wasn’t someone Claude talked to much. The seminary had assigned him as Claude’s formation advisor, sure, but that just meant that twice a semester, he drank weak tea while the bishop nodded over his transcript and suggested he take another Latin course, while Claude bit his tongue and counted to ten because he wanted to be a priest, not an academic, and no one said mass in Latin anymore. And even if they did, it’d be written down next to the English translation, and his problem was the stupid declensions, not his fuc—not his pronunciation. But when a bishop sent you an e-mail to set up an appointment, you met with your bishop, not matter how late you’d come back from your second job the night before, or how much reading you still had to do for New Testament Greek. Why had he decided to get his M.Div again?

Claude pulled down the cuffs of his button up, and licked his lips. He raised his hand and knocked on the door, glancing behind him at the empty secretary’s desk and out at the streaks of pale red outside the bay window. Seven a.m. must’ve been the devil’s idea. He heard rustling, a soft footstep, and then the door opened.

“Good morning, Claude,” Bishop Hesner said, reaching out.

“Good morning, your grace,” Claude said, shaking the bishop’s hand.

He stepped into the office, the worn toes of his dress shoes pressing down into thick carpeting. The bishop let go of Claude’s hand and walked towards his desk.

“Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you here,” his grace said, gesturing for Claude to sit down.

 

***

 

Claude stared up at the…really embarrassingly huge house looming over his Camry, and flexed his fingers into the indents on the steering wheel. A freaking Escalade was pulled up to the double car garage next to him, and the lawn was as big—no, it was _bigger_ holy crap—as his old apartment. He glanced up at the windows facing out of the—Mr. Briere’s estate, wow. He narrowed his eyes as the curtains twitched. It kind of looked like a tiny face with messy brown hair was peeking down at him. The curtain shook again, and the face disappeared. Right.

An important public figure, his grace had said. Going through a rough time, he’d claimed. Divorce was a horrible thing, and no one was condoning it, but Briere had three boys and a pack of dogs and no clue how to single parent.

“Seventeen an hour plus room and board,” Claude muttered to himself, as he got out of the car.

There was an actual, honest to God, walk up to Mr. Briere’s home, and Claude spent it reminding himself that his M.Div took up about sixty percent of his waking hours, and that he swallowed the remaining forty driving to whatever crappy under the table job he’d scraped up to pay for his classes, and the closet he called his apartment off-campus. And he’d still been begging his mum for an extra fifty every other month to make gas and food stretch, maybe throw a carrot in his top ramen.

“Seventeen an hour plus room and board,” Claude said again, and squared his shoulders as he knocked on the door.

It couldn’t hurt to meet with the man, and it definitely wouldn’t hurt to help Mr. Briere if he really was struggling. Three boys. Well, Claude’d been a boy, how bad could it be?


End file.
